


Even a Fool

by ultrapsychobrat



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-21
Updated: 2010-02-21
Packaged: 2017-10-07 11:10:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/64568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultrapsychobrat/pseuds/ultrapsychobrat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story takes place during the two years after Blake leaves the Liberator.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Even a Fool

A physical release...yes. Roj Blake surged up to meet the body covering his, hot slick skin sliding, sliding and felt that of the other come down to meet him. Tight. Just right.

A release for the body. A release for the mind.

A soul? What was that?

Avon claimed there was no scientific evidence to support the existence of same. Therefore, logically, it didn't exist. Therefore, logically, it couldn't hurt, couldn't be felt. And there could be no empty space for it in the center of his body.

Logically.

With the next surge he found Taj's mouth with his and pushed his tongue as far down his throat as he could reach. It tended to cut off air supply, and any resistance to what he planned next.

He positioned his friend and surged forward.

As he had planned, he stopped thinking.

~~~~~

Roj Blake wasn't always prone to philosophical/theological arguments with himself. Not anymore—and once such arguments hadn't been with himself, alone. Once he'd had a partner, a cynical, bitter and rather sardonic side of himself to debate these questions with.

Once.

Once it had been exhilarating to intercept the side-glances, the elevated eyebrow, the half-sneer accompanied by body language that drove him wild--wild with a longing and a hunger that would not abate, would not be quenched, could not be controlled by mind or reason. No. Not until late at night or the middle of the day or any time they were finally alone. Then, if he played his cards right—anger or indifference, after a while it didn't always matter—he would hear the footsteps, soft, panther glide against the sentient floor of the ship, or catch the eyes burning at him across empty space, locked. Deadlocked. Caught. Held.

Until he fell into them—bottomless, fathomless, suffocating--terrifying to one from Earth who could not swim, knew nothing of floating or surviving on the surface of anything.

Avon.

Nemesis. Enemy. Partner. Friend….

His mind slid away to the cavern he kept for it, the safe spaces Cally had taught him long ago to locate and use—taught him to find and keep his sanity against the horrors planted there by a soulless Federation.

A soul.

ORAC agreed with Avon that incorporeal substances quoted only in myths and legends had no basis in any reality, any fact, and, therefore, could not exist on any logical plane of what humans term realistic thinking. But, then, he would. He usually agreed with Avon—even sounded like him, come to that.

But Blake could hear a wicked laugh, see a sated twisted smile blur into existence above him from an old memory painted in green-leaved background, carved into a canopy of light pink, studded with pastel blue clouds.

_If anyone living had a soul, it would be you, Blake. I can think of no one else that would harbor one; not now, not in these times. No one else is so much the fool._

One thing Cally had neglected to teach him was how to keep himself from getting lost in the meditation, to keep from relaxing so far he fell asleep, fell asleep to be captured by the nightmare—the angry, vicious evil that came reaching for him with grim pincers; tearing, ripping, cutting through muscle, bone and sinew; hunting, reaching, searching, probing for that which had no corporeal existence, but that for which they'd tortured him anyway. But that he couldn't give them, wouldn't give them (wasn't his to give since this last time), though they'd sliced and mutilated and torn him assunder looking to obtain and own that which made him what he was.

Avon was probably right.

They had only found empty space—had to be satisfied with it, there was nothing else and they had blanked his mind after he wouldn't tell them. After all, they couldn't admit to failure. It wasn't in their vocabulary, as obviously the term 'soul' wasn't either.

Or they would still be looking.

Travis wanted his soul--for Servalan, in principle--though Blake was never under any illusions. _You will surrender to me, Blake._ The voice still echoed in the night and through the misty daylight when he didn't fight it. _I will have your soul before you die. You will beg me to take it with your last breath._ It was funny, really.

Avon had laughed.

The high wild laughter that could be eerie, cold. The laughter that could chill the soul. Perhaps it could—Blake had seen, for one small moment, ice reflect hollowly in their eyes.

Perhaps.

~~~~~

Warm mouth caressing, tasting, finding sensitive places, erogenous areas that actually made him smile. He slapped the thigh and arose, pulling on his clothes to the disappointed murmurs of his lover.

Lover.

Well….

Blake threaded suddenly shaky fingers through curls thick enough to hide their tremors, rubbed his eyes with the heels of both hands and blinked down into the flushed face below him, tousled, wanton. He shook his head at the invitation so open there, bent down, rewarded the full lips with a kiss, his eyes crinkling at the corners. As he knew they would, Taj's arms came stealing around his neck, his body opening for him, offering to resume the heady pleasures of the night. Rising up slightly, Blake reached out to trace a gentle finger down the young man's cheek.

_It's these moments of gentleness that betray you, you know._ He heard that voice from somewhere far away, long gone—whispering, echoing desultorily from another morning, another bed, another partner. _You could almost make me believe in you, Blake. Almost. Sometimes it's almost possible to believe in what I see in your eyes._

Something obviously not there anymore.

Only a soul, perhaps? Misplaced on some barren planet, or forgotten in the pocket of a once determined rebel, buried in the overwhelming carnage of another peoples' war?

Or given once irrevocably, despite an uncertain eternity.

Even ORAC would say for some things there are no second chances.

For some things.

 

Blake flicked the upturned nose with a finger, smoothed the pout away with a smile.

The smiles seldom reached his eyes anymore.

But then, that was to be expected.

~~~~~

_ He leaned his forehead against the wall; it felt cool against his skin. "Yes, Avon."_

_"Your watch, I believe, my lovely Blake. Or do time units still remain on a different continuum in that room of yours?"_

_All the gods— "I'm on my way."_

_Bastard!_

~~~~~

Glancing back at the bed, eyes dark now, Blake made a decision.

A soul? Who needed it?

And if by some chance in the future it became necessary…perhaps there is some honor in simply taking what you need.

His eyes met the blue ones, but he had no gentleness to offer, now. None at all. Everyone's a thief.

One learns eventually.

Even a fool.


End file.
